


The Agent and His Quartermaster

by SvengoolieCat



Series: The Agent and The Quartermaster [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: BAMFs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-SPECTRE, Swearing, murder cats, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8342977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvengoolieCat/pseuds/SvengoolieCat
Summary: Everyone thinks Bond is the scary one in their relationship, and the one to watch out for. Little do they know he and Q are pretty evenly matched in the BAMF department.A series of one-shots following Bond and Q as they navigate life after Bond returns from his latest attempt at retirement. Follows "Of Cats and Mortgages" and "Pray You Now."Ch. 4: In which Bond and Q spend an afternoon digging through the Q’s Warehouse of Technological Horrors, finding lost treasure. Well, Bond thinks they’ve found treasure, Q thinks he might be in hell and really wants tea. At least one of them is having fun. [Inspired by a convo during Linorien’s _You Only Live Twice_ watch party.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no particular plan for these one-shots. Figured this would be a catch-all for small plot bunnies. Suggestions and comments welcome!

Bond stalked the halls of MI-6, viciously gratified that people parted like the Red Sea before him. Fresh off the plane from Afghanistan, he had bruises still spreading across his face, a cut held together by a butterfly bandage, and murder in his eyes. Under his suit, no longer pristine but a bit tattered, he had more bruises and cuts and was in absolutely no mood for anything beyond reporting in and doing his due diligence so they’d leave him alone for a few days.

He’d written the mission report on the plane and given it to his secretary. She’d clean it up from his hurried chicken scratch, edit out the glaring errors and profanity he gleefully included, cluck like a disapproving schoolmarm at him next he deigned to visit his cupboard of an office, and she’d send it on to M. His next stop was Q-Branch, where he never failed to make the boffins nervous.

They were all well aware of the open secret that since Bond returned from his third attempt at retiring from service he’d been enthusiastically sleeping with their ostensibly benevolent Overlord, but that didn’t seem to make much of a difference. The ongoing betting pools were divided pretty evenly on what would happen if Q and Bond broke up—some said that Q would erase Bond’s digital existence so thoroughly he’d be unable to get arrested even if found bloody-handed over a corpse, others said Bond would probably embark on a murder spree for the ages.

Bond let them think that. It amused Q to be underestimated, and even Bond wasn’t entirely sure how deadly his lover could be. The man handled half-feral Double-Ohs for a living, and had gone out of his way to cultivate relationships with each of his charges. He sparred with 001 and 005, went to weekend farmer’s markets with 004, seemed to have a bizarre sort of bookclub going with 002, 003, 008, and 0010, designed and built an illegal distillery with 006 in the quest for creating the perfect vodka, went to art galleries with 0011, and often employed 009 in the garage to work on cars. Bond would be jealous, except he knew he was the only one who got to see Q on rainy Sunday mornings, filling in his crossword puzzles over a cup of tea and crooning sweet nothings at his cats.

“Where’s Q?” Bond asked R.

“He went home when your plane touched down at Heathrow,” R said. She took his gun, radio, and Seamaster watch. He waited impatiently as she checked in his equipment and signed off on it, shoving a perfectly ordinary and non-explosive gel pen at him to initial his paperwork. “Thank you, 007. Have you been to Medical?”

Bond rolled his eyes. “Mere flesh wounds.”

R eyed him. “Your funeral,” she said. “Your next mission just came through.”

Bond suppressed a sound of protest. “Maybe I should go to Medical. I’m feeling poorly.”

R laughed. Her dark eyes sparkled unexpectedly. “M told Q to go home and not to show his face physically or digitally for the next two days under pain of being made to attend meetings with Accounting. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to keep him occupied and anywhere but here. Use whatever methods of persuasion you deem necessary.” Her grin was downright wicked.

“I’ll do my best,” Bond said lightly.

“I bet you will.” She waggled her eyebrows at him and Bond beat a hasty retreat.

Home was a moderate and innocuous-seeming house in a Chelsea suburb. It came with a two-car garage, a small backyard, and neighbors who waved at him when he walked out to get the mail or paper. Months ago Bond had permanently given up his flat and lived with Q full-time. It wasn’t like he had much to his name. His clothes took up half of Q’s wardrobe, his few books and albums disappeared into Q’s shelves, and his Aston Martin took up the space next to Q’s cherry red Mustang in the two-car garage. It was an easy affair, and for once Bond didn’t worry about his flat and possessions being sold from under him.

Jack, the dapper little tuxedo cat Bond had rescued years before, met Bond at the door with a happy meep and mashed his little face into Bond’s calves. The door closed behind him and security reset, Bond ignored the cat hair on his suit and gave Jack a scratch behind the ears

He followed the sound of the television to the living room, and stopped to take in the view. After a couple of weeks in the Afghani desert getting shot at, Bond appreciated the sight of his lover artfully sprawled over the sinfully comfortable sofa in soft blue jeans and a faded t-shirt. Q’s hair was still damp and curling from the shower, and the evening news glinted off his glasses. For once, his laptop was nowhere to be seen, even if his ever-present phone was face down on the coffee table.

Bond felt something loosen in his back, a lowering of his guard.

Q moved to let him sit down, and then carefully resumed his sprawl across Bond’s lap.

“R said you were feeling poorly,” he said.

“Terrible. Bedrest is strongly recommended,” Bond told him brightly, fingers in that wild dark hair.

Q’s smile was small and enigmatic, but lit green eyes with a warmth that had Bond sinking back into the cushions with a half-pained, half-contented sound. Long fingers traced the outline of a bruise spreading around Bond’s left eye and cheekbone, scratched lightly through light blond hair, and gently tugged on an ear.

“Are they all dead?” he asked.

“Quite,” Bond said.

“Good.”

“So what have I missed?” Bond asked, nodding at the television.

“An ongoing exposé on exploding phones,” Q said with a terrifying amount of glee. “Apparently, there’s a problem with the battery, and they explode terrifically with very little effort. Torched an entire car in minutes. Allegedly.”

Bond eyed him, then the news story. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“That doctored phones would make excellent bombs that could go through airport security?”

“That sounds like something 006 would put you up to.”

“Please. Don’t tell me _you’re_ not interested. The applications could be fun. I’m almost positive I could build a battery designed to overload on purpose, with a coded trigger. The coding might be a little tricky. Still, we use them for surveillance so why not as assassination devices? Or as fiery little distractions?”

Q’s eyes were far away as he mulled over the possibilities.

“Well, you do give us exploding pens, cufflinks, and watches. Why not phones? Although, I’m mildly concerned about losing my own hand or head. Those don’t look stable.”

The phone in the news segment sparked and flew like a rocket around the lab. The reporter cowered back behind the protective barrier, hands on his head.

Q patted him on the chest. “Like I’d send you out with faulty equipment.”

Bond caught the hand with a wince and brushed a kiss across Q’s knuckles. The other man looked at him, eyes going very sharp.

“Nothing serious,” Bond told him.

Q hummed and sat up. Bond missed the comforting, bony weight as Q twisted up onto his knees beside Bond, his breath and smooth tones in Bond’s ear.

“Go take a shower, James. First aid kit and painkillers are already on the kitchen counter, and the takeout should arrive in a twenty minutes.” A light nip landed on the hinge of Bond’s jaw. Bond turned his head with burning eyes, but Q reared back out of reach with a wicked grin.

Well, all right then. Bond could play hard to get, too. He heaved himself off the sofa. Aches and pains from his most recent beating had settled into his bones.

“And 007? Do hurry back,” Q purred and flopped gracefully back across the cushions like a decadent Dorian Gray in faded blue jeans.

“Minx,” Bond said, limping to the bathroom. Q’s delighted chuckle followed him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q thinks Bond is up to something, Moneypenny has a new paramour she's not talking about, and bourbon ends up in places bourbon shouldn't be.

“He’s up to something,” Q said. “I can _feel_ it.”

“So many dirty jokes, so little time,” Eve Moneypenny sighed.

Q crinkled his nose at her. “God, Moneypenny.”

Moneypenny cackled into her beer. Her favorite boffin and probable super villain-in-waiting looked adorably rumpled, easy to mistake for a half-feral graduate student. His jacket was slung across his messenger bag, the garish orange and blue tie half loosened around a disheveled collar. He swigged a bourbon neat, a rare cigarette held by the first two fingers of the same hand. His perfect posture was slowly degenerating into an exhausted slump. She cast an eye over his hair which seemed to have a life of its own. Fifteen hours at MI-6 could do that to a person, she supposed, especially when he had MI-6’s favorite problem child waiting at home for him, convalescing because of a broken leg.

“Okay, Qutie,” she said. “Tell me what the golden boy is plotting.” The look he gave her was downright filthy, but in the absence of a real name to call him by, she amused herself by inventing all kinds of irritating nicknames for him. It was a testament to how much he liked her, she supposed, that he didn’t tank her credit score. _Does Bond know your name?_ she wondered.

“I don’t have a clue what he’s doing,” Q said. “I haven’t asked, he hasn’t told. But whatever it is has been keeping him quiet and occupied.”

“Bond, quiet?”

“Surprisingly so,” Q said. “But he says he’s taking his recovery time to ‘catch up on his reading.’ Thing is, I believe him.”

“I’m having a hard time picturing Bond reading anything more than a newspaper. I always figured he was one of those kids in school who’d rather play rugby than study.”

“He reads more than I do, actually. I think he likes to play dumb for the rest of us. Says the downtime on all those missions gets boring and he has to do something now that he doesn’t go shagging around anymore unless it’s related to the job.”

Moneypenny couldn’t suppress a smile. “Oh, let me guess. He’s started reading _50 Shades of Grey_ and has gotten ideas about bondage and spanking. Oh, please, spare no details. Are there blindfolds?”

Q stayed quiet, a complicated look on his face. Moneypenny gaped.

“No, shit, really?”

“No!” Q said, and the bright color spreading over his nose and cheeks had nothing to do with the liquor. Interesting. “It’s spy thrillers.”

Moneypenny blinked. “Come again?”

“Spy thrillers. Cheap ones, bestsellers, whatever he can get his hands on. There are piles of them all over the house. I saw him taking a pen to one of them the other day and muttering how the character would have been dead by page ten in real life.”

“Well, if it keeps him occupied,” Moneypenny said. Q made a noise that could have meant anything.

God, what did it look like when those two were home alone together? Moneypenny had watched them dance around each other for years at work and sometimes in less formal environments, watched an odd mutual fascination develop that kept them orbiting each other. MI-6’s very own urban legend and the enigmatic Quartermaster each seemed larger than life and terrifyingly competent each in their own ways. Sometimes even inhuman, the one with his icy blue eyes and license to kill and the other with his preternatural stillness and soft voice. Their public interactions always had an element of performance—they knew they always had an audience and played off each other with bright eyes and razorblade smiles. What were they like when the world left them be?

“If he’s happy, I’m happy,” Q said.

“Maybe he’ll write his own spy novel.”

“Oh, God.”

“I mean, his life is basically a melodramatic Hollywood wet dream. The cars, the gadgets, the adventure, the villains, the racy sex. Add in some actual tradecraft and realistic details…”

“Christ.”

“It’d probably be a bestseller,” Moneypenny said.

She could almost see the cogs whirring away in his brain. “It’s not a bad idea,” he said. “He can’t do this forever, as much as he’d like to. It’d be good for him to have another outlet.”

He crushed the remains of his cigarette with a breathtakingly precise deliberation and lit another. Through the haze of smoke, his green eyes were dark and focused somewhere in the middle-distance.

“I may well lose all of them,” he continued, his enunciation sharp as cut glass as he organized his thoughts. “But I’ll be damned if I don’t see _him_ to mandatory retirement and well beyond.”

Moneypenny didn’t tell him the statistics or the average lifespan of a Double-Oh. She didn’t remind him of the dangers that shadowed them, the demons they wrestled and eventually lost to one way or another. She didn’t bring up all the closed personnel files on the Double-Ohs who ate bullets within a year of retirement or otherwise being pulled from active duty—or even while still on active duty. She didn’t point out the ice-cold fact that their retirement benefits are so princely because no one expected any of them to live long enough for it to matter.

“Anyway,” Q inhaled about a quarter of his cigarette in a go and fixed her with a look of pure mischief. “So. Tell me about this ‘friend’ you’ve been seeing. Is he nice? Will we meet him anytime soon?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t ask about Bond and blindfolds and bedroom antics without quid pro quo.”

“I can. I am a lady who doesn’t kiss and tell, whereas your boy, though we all may love him dearly, is a shameless hussy. And while you’ve convinced everyone that you’re somehow a vanilla, dewy-eyed innocent, I don’t believe it for a second. If anyone has the blindfold and spanking fetish, it would be you.” She grinned sweetly.

Q guffawed into his drink and she saw a flash of dimples for a second before he was coughing, eyes streaming into a napkin, composure completely abandoned.

“Fuck, Eve,” he wheezed. “That went up my nose. It fucking burns, worse than root beer.”

“Serves you right for being ungentlemanly. What would Scarlett say?” 004 took an almost perverse delight in etiquette that was almost Hannibal Lector-ish in scope. No one was brave enough to ask her why. But men who were rude to her tended to get their throats slit, so everyone took it as a hint to leave well enough alone.

“After a couple cocktails, she’d tell all. In grotesque detail.” He dabbed at his eyes. “What’s the point of a mostly gay best friend if you don’t talk about guys? I thought that was standard conversation protocol. We talked about mine, now your turn. What does he leave around the house for you to trip on?”

She ignored his inquiry. “Oh, poor baby. ‘Standard conversation protocols’? We really need to get you out of your dungeons and resocialized with normal people. Or maybe sent back to spy school, so you can learn to ask indirect questions.”

“Pfft. We’re off the clock. And I always flunked deception classes.”

“That just means you need more practice.”

“You are no fun at all, Moneypenny.” He finished his drink and cigarette as his phone chimed. Between the nicotine and bourbon, his shoulders seemed a little looser. He looked at the screen, his eyes and mouth softening enough for her to guess who it was.

“Go on,” she said. “He’s waiting for you.”

“He can’t reach the cat food, and says Jack is beginning to eye him up like a steak.”

The phone chimed again. Q rolled his eyes. “But he feels the cat could be bought off with some good pad Thai. And maybe some pineapple chicken.”

“Subtle.”

“Masterclass of tradecraft, right there,” Q said. He picked up his bag and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t think I’m giving up about your new friend,” he said, air quotes evident around his last word.

“Of course not,” she said.

“I’ll settle the tab. Are you good to make it home? I can call a cab or drop you off, whichever.”

“You know, I could kill you ten different ways with one of my stilettos and I’m not even feeling properly buzzed or inspired. Begone, pretty boy.”

He grinned, a flash of green eyes through the smoke of the bar, and was moving away. She watched as the slim boffin slipped out of the bar, his phone already at his ear.

Was it possible, she wondered, that behind closed doors those two might be adorable?

That thought called for another drink.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond has a cunning plan, Q should really know better than to go along with it, and Moneypenny could probably run circles around the whole lot of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to chironsgirl for the idea of Bond being a trainer for newbie agents. :)

“Q, darling.”

Q rolled over, pulled the sheet up over his head and mashed his face defiantly into the pillow. “Not now. Sleeping.”

A warm weight settled over his back. One muscular arm wrapped around him as a voice purred into his ear through the sheet. A distant part of Q’s brain noted that there was a barely noticeable trace of Highland brogue rounding out the vowels, and it was enough to shock him into unwelcome wakefulness. The accent shivered down his spine like warm honey and damn, if he wasn’t so sleep-deprived…

“Q. Light of my life. Partner in crime-solving and committing. Brilliant Quartermaster who I adore annoying.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Oh, good, you’re awake. It’s six am,” the voice purred.

“Still dark.”

The sheet was wrested away from his head and he sighed with irritation as Bond gently manhandled him around to tuck Q against the agent’s side. Q obligingly curled into his agent, wondering where this was all going. Ordinarily his libido would be happy to comply but right now he was just not feeling it. He’d had a long day and night sequestered away in his Branch with three active missions, and had crept home and into bed. Bond hadn't even twitched as Q had burrowed under the covers. For a terrifying assassin, sometimes the man slept like the dead at home. 

But a close, confidential cuddle and pillow talk seemed to be what his agent was after. “I had an idea,” Bond said, rough palm sliding up and down Q’s back as though he was one of their cats. “It’s a brilliant idea, for a training exercise. Want to hear it?”

“No.” Q nuzzled into Bond’s t-shirt and closed his eyes.

“I’ll tell you anyway.”

The silence was cheerily expectant. Bloody hell, morning people were the _worst_. Finally Q raised his hand with a vague, twirly, _out-with-it_ motion.

“Moneypenny’s new paramour.” Bond said.

“What about him.”

“What about him, indeed. Since you’ve failed at all intelligence-gathering missions in the past six weeks, it’s time that a new approach is applied.”

Q made a grumpy noise.

“It’s not your fault,” Bond said, petting up and down Q’s spine again. “You’re overworked and tired lately whatwith the Americans self-imploding with their elections and 006 burning down half of Namibia. And Eve has a surprising tolerance to all the liquor you’ve plied her with.”

A tolerance Q did not share any longer. Despite his youthful good looks, his college years were a good decade and change behind him, and one recent Friday night of drinking with Eve ended with him curled up on his bathroom tile, worshiping the porcelain throne. The memory of the cat silently judging him from the ledge of the tub and Bond trying hard to hide his snickering as he plied Q with water and painkillers sent a spark of phantom pain through his head.

Awake now, and resenting it a bit, Q propped up on a elbow, chin in his hand. The cool silvery predawn light stole across the bedcovers, making Bond’s eyes spark sapphire and wrapping them in a quietness that almost seemed to make the world stand still in this space between night and day. His other arm wrapped around Bond’s ribs.

“Tell me, then.”

Bond grinned and started laying out the battle plan.

Q listened with half an ear and a wry fondness. He’d gotten used to having the agent nearby. The leg break hadn’t been bad, but it had taken Bond out of active commission for about six weeks. And even now, he was only back on light duty for another couple weeks. At M’s insistence (who at Q’s insistence, insisted, though that bit of info was kept on the DL) Bond was helping train new agent recruits. It got him out of the house and yet kept him close, which Q appreciated. For all that Bond hogged the covers, sprawled out like a big blond lion, and occasionally woke Q with his thrashing and nightmares, Q was quite used to having the other man in his bed, either when he got into it or out. He’d miss him when Bond went on proper assignment again.

“She’s going to kill you,” Q said. “She probably expects you to do something like this.”

Bond shrugged one scarred shoulder. “She already tried shooting me dead, and it didn’t work out.”

“Have you seen that woman’s shoes? She doesn’t need a gun, James. Her bare hands and one Louboutin will do.”

“Can you think of a better exercise, though? We have almost nothing to go on. They’ll have to start their recon from square one, on a tight schedule, and not get caught. They’ll have to do the same thing out in the real world with actual enemies. Here, we have the same situation but the element of danger is thrilling without being completely lethal. And we’ll get them to do the work for us.”

“I do appreciate good delegation opportunities,” Q said.

The silvery morning light strengthened even as rain pattered gently outside the foggy window. Q pulled the duvet over the both of them, determined to block out the chill seeping into their warm cocoon. Bond’s eyes glowed with a truly unholy glee that made Q’s contrary, troublemaking soul kind of happy.

Q narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “But you didn’t wake me up just to monologue your entire evil plan. What do you need me to do?”

“Willing to join me in the stocks?” Bond asked, mildly surprised.

Q sighed. “The stocks? 007, we’re both going to be forced to dig our own shallow graves out in the woods somewhere. I’d at least like to earn the right to have input on the location so I can ensure that a jogger will someday stumble across our bones.”

In the right light, the look Bond gave him would have been soppy if Bond wasn’t working so hard to contain a laugh. “That is the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said. “Macabre, but romantic.”

“Fine. Next time I talk about our mutual demise and burials, I’ll make sure to present you with flowers or something.”

The suppressed laughter Q felt under his arm intensified. “I’m not sure that flowers would make it any better, Q.”

Q grinned and tucked down against Bond’s shoulder again. “What do you need?”

“I need a photo of the target and a name. I'm sure you can find that on surveillance easily enough.”

“I can. Is that all?”

“Well, some surveillance equipment. And if you could make it look like we’re training elsewhere, that would be excellent. Maybe Cornwall?”

“What the fuck could you possibly say you’re doing in Cornwall?”

“Hell if I know. I’ll make the trainees figure it out. Homework.”

 

007*Q*007*Q*007

“Cornwall? What the fuck do they think they’re going to do in Cornwall?” Moneypenny filched some of Q’s chips.

Q did not look up from the circuit board he was building. He found that lying came more easily when he pretended to be engaged in something else. Preferably if that something else came with equipment to hide behind, like the magnification goggles/helmet he was wearing.

“Hell if I know,” he said. “They’re probably…tipping cows by night and working on their tans by day.”

Moneypenny’s eyebrows rose to new heights. Q looked over at her and was mildly alarmed that he could pretty much count each individual eyebrow hair and eyelash. Squinting, he pulled the goggle helmet off and reached for the sandwich, taking a gigantic bite and talking through it. The very soul of nonchalance, he was.

“They’ll show up in a week, bloodied and with interesting new scars, none of their equipment, and obnoxious nicknames for each other.”

Moneypenny sighed. “Those were the days.”

“You miss them?” he asked.

“Sometimes. It was a bit of a rush. Foreign climates, danger, constant problem solving. You could shoot the people who irritated you. Nowadays, I deal with the ritual blackmail scheme that is politics.”

“I’m sure we could get you out of the office if you wanted,” Q said. “M would weep inconsolably, and England would probably fall, but I’m sure a post-apocalyptic world would be all sorts of fun.”

Eve made a noise that in a less beautiful and graceful lady would be termed a snort.

“You and Bond, when the world ends? I wouldn’t worry about either of you. You’d probably become kings of the rabble.”

“A new Arthur and Merlin, uniting Albion.” Q chewed his sandwich and warmed to the idea. They would be a ferocious team, with or without slobbering zombies and a working electrical grid.

He wondered if Bond would trade in his beloved Aston Martin for a horse. Maybe a big white destrier, armored and snorting and rearing with sharp hooves. Q hummed absently. Bond riding a horse. _Oh, we should try that sometime_. _Maybe a long weekend in the country._

“Hey, Q. Q! Wherever your twisted little mind just went, please bring it back. The vacant drooling stare thing is kind of unnerving.”

 

007*Q*007*Q*007

The agent-trainees did indeed come back five days later a bit bloody, a bit bruised, grinning like loons, and following in Bond’s footsteps like a flock of adoring little ducklings.

None of them had clearance high enough to go to Q-Branch, so Q met them personally at the new glass SIS monstrosity to collect their equipment. About half of the equipment made it back with them. Q fixed all four of the trainees with his best deadpan bitchface, unblinking over the rims of his glasses, and within five minutes had all of them squirming in profound discomfort and guilt.

Well, they had a ways to go yet. Usually the agents learned to manufacture the correct level of repentance to appease the mostly-benevolent Overlord of the Nerds, but these greenhorns still had enough humanity to feel genuine guilt. Q suppressed his mirth at their fidgeting and reflected that his devout Catholic mother would be so proud of his guilt-tripping. He certainly understood the appeal now that he was on the other side of it. Usually, anyway. Bond stood at the back of the group, outwardly somber, blue eyes twinkling.

Q dismissed them and locked the briefcase containing the mangled remnants of their equipment.

“Shall I escort you safely to your lair, Quartermaster?”

“If you would be so kind, 007.”

A knot between Q’s shoulders loosened as his agent fell into step with him to where Q’s driver was waiting in the carpark.

“How did it go?” Q asked, mindful of listening ears.

“They’re green but enthusiastic,” Bond said. “Nowhere near ready to be let loose on their own. And they have a lot of energy.”

Q grinned. “Were they hard to keep up with, old man?”

“Shut up. I don’t remember being that young.” Bond pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I don’t remember you being that young either. I’ve seen pictures. Black and white ones. Very handsome, though.” Q patted Bond’s shoulder.

“Impertinent whelp.”

“Relic.”

They grinned at each other sharply.

“And the assignment?” Q asked.

“Surprising. Technically a success, although the results weren’t quite what we hoped.”

“Oh,” Q said. “Will you be free to tell me about it over dinner?”

“I would. I’ve finished the debrief, just need to look over my notes and type up my assessments.”

“Excellent.” Dropped off by one of the entrances to Q-branch, Bond escorted Q down the grim hall. Without warning Bond pulled him into a janitor’s closet and flicked on the light.

“Bond!” Q hissed. “Not another damn closet. _We’re getting a reputation_!”

“Hush.” Bond said. “No one will be looking for us yet, and I’ll be quick.”

Q harrumphed. “That is not true. That is never, ever true.”

Bond gave him a wicked grin, kissed him properly and filthily against the door. Q bit him in retribution, then happily set about ruffling Bond’s picture perfect presentation with wandering hands. Bond turned his attention to Q’s neck, which he arched to allow more access.

“We spent the week chasing Moneypenny’s gay half-brother who moved to London after getting a divorce from his husband three months ago,” Bond murmured in his ear. “Back to square one.”

“Seriously,” Q panted. “You’re telling me this now? _Right now_?”

Bond’s lips hovered over his. “And he’s a cop, just hired into the Met.” Bond’s fingers were in his hair, pulling his head just so Bond could pay attention to the other side of his neck. “But the good news is that he’s a good guy, so we needn’t worry about our favorite girl Friday.”

Q made a strangled noise of rage and felt Bond smile into his skin before pulling back. The agent cast a pleased eye over his Quartermaster’s ruffled appearance. Q straightened his clothes primly.

“I’ll thank you to not talk about Moneypenny or her brother while you’ve got your mouth on me, 007. It’s weird. Even by our standards.”

With that, he yanked the door open—

And came face-to-face with one of the janitors. Who did not look nearly so surprised as Q would like, but looked at him with a longsuffering air of disapproval. And even a few years of working at MI-6, regularly getting an eyeful of most of his agent’s backsides as they seduced their targets (among other activities), was not enough to stop fire from rushing across his face and neck and ears. The janitor leaned a little to the side, peering around Q. Bond gave the man a nonchalant little finger-wave as he stepped past both of them, straightening his tie, looking for all the world as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Q decided that it was maybe time for Bond to have a real assignment abroad.

He cleared his throat.

“Late dinner at the pub, Bond. Don’t be late.” He picked up the briefcase again and strode away from both of them, embarrassment burning through him.

“As you like, Quartermaster,” Bond called.

 

**[across the city]**

“Gotta give them credit, I didn’t actually notice any of them for a good three days. But you were right.”

“Of course I’m right. My…friends are a lot of things, but they aren’t nearly as subtle as they like to think they are.”

“You could maybe tell them the truth.”

“Nah, this is more fun.”

“Well, that blond one you described spent a very long night in the drunk tank with a hooker, two frat boys who got caught streaking, the local travelling evangelist who tried really hard to save all their souls, and a drag queen with the longest nails I have ever seen.”

“Did you get pictures?”

“And printed out hard copies like you asked.”

“Excellent. Don’t forget to call Mum on Sunday. It’s her birthday.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond and Q spend an afternoon digging through the Q’s Warehouse of Technological Horrors, finding lost treasure. Well, Bond thinks they’ve found treasure, Q thinks he might be in hell and really wants tea. At least one of them is having fun.  
> (Inspired by a convo during Linorien’s You Only Live Twice watch party.)

[Presently:]

“This is a terrible idea, James.”

“This is an amazing idea, Q, loosen up a bit.”

Q put his hands on his hips and stared down his second favorite secret agent. Standing in the middle of the field with his suit jacket off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the wind blowing his hair every which way, he resembled a particularly pissed-off scarecrow. Or a cranky but hot professor from all those anime programs he watched early on Saturday mornings.

Bond beamed at him anyway, bright blue eyes sparkling. Heedless of the bemused audience gathering at a safe distance, he leaned across the contraption and planted a kiss on his favorite Quartermaster’s sulky mouth, before leaping into the seat and strapping in. “You sure you don’t want to come up? Get some firsthand research?”

Q stared at him with huge green eyes, swore once with heartfelt precision, and shoved an old helmet into Bond’s hands.

Bond, having a sensible idea of just how far he could push his lover, dutifully put on the helmet and smiled expectantly at Q. Q tried not to smile back, but Bond looked ridiculous, wearing that god-awful helmet that would do nothing to save Bond’s thick skull. His ears still kind of stuck out, which couldn’t be comfortable, but he gamely strapped the helmet on anyway, somehow channeling his forty years into an expression more suited for a teenager. Damn. Well. If Bond’s fate was to die in a godforsaken field in the middle of nowhere, at least he’d die cute.

Bond read Q’s final surrender to this stupid plan in his face, and didn’t quite manage to avoid a small anticipatory wiggle that shivered through the entire contraption. Q’s stomach churned with nerves, he stomped around to the tail and cranked the paddle.

 

[How it all started]

A couple times a year, Q was obliged to inspect the off-site warehouse that housed generations of Q-branch files, prototypes, and gadgets of varying utility. Going was always an affair, requiring at least a few days away from his dungeon lair beneath the Thames. After all, the warehouse was part of a top secret base of operations for the Company. The entire facility was a tech nerd’s wet dream: as an active satellite installation, the base came equipped with laboratories and testing ranges suitable for explosives and weapons testing that made Baskerville look like amateurs. He had staff out there handling the things he didn’t have the room or facilities for in London—cars, aircraft, watercraft, chemical weapons, they worked on it out there and shipped it into the city or wherever Q directed.

They also had a state of the art computer bank out there. Before he was Q, he’d spent a couple years posted at the Warehouse, short for the colloquial “Q’s Warehouse of Technological Horrors.” Quite a few of his predecessors maintained a flair for the bizarre, and few agents were actually allowed in the Warehouse proper.

Sometimes things exploded. There was an incident back in ’08 when a guard dropped a box of shoes by accident. Apparently, some deranged Quartermaster had thought packing the heels full of C-4 was a good idea.

It wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

A walkthrough of the Warehouse was a bloody adventure by itself. Sometimes blood was literally involved. Q loved it, even if it was dangerous.

Which brought Q to the downside of his visits these days: he had to be escorted by a ranking agent to and from the Warehouse. And the ranking agent who had bullied his way onto this assignment? 007. Bond, James Bond. Who was supposed to be on assignment in Peru. Who finished early and returned home promptly, crawling into bed at near midnight and turning into a sprawling, clinging octopus, releasing Q only when 004 rapped on their front door at 0800 sharp.

Q planned the trip while Bond was away because even though he adored the menace, he figured it would be wiser to take 004, Scarlett Papava, with him. He liked her company, felt she could be trusted not to destroy anything, and most importantly _she wouldn’t fucking wander off like a hapless Doctor Who companion and get into trouble_.

“So this is the infamous Warehouse,” Bond said, hands in his pockets as he looked over the immense building. To the outside observer, he appeared calm and unaffected, dressed casually in black jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket, and hiking boots. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, which made Q distinctly uneasy.

“Quite,” Q said, standing shoulder to shoulder with him and shielding his own eyes from the weak sun. “It’s two floors above ground, three floors below, and contains prototypes of everything Q-Branch has ever made from the beginning, categorized by utility and then chronologically. It also contains other things that are above your security clearance. Speaking of, security and fire suppression is state of the art. It looks full but storage is only about half-capacity, although we could rearrange things for significantly more room. We make it look more full than it is to keep Budgets and Accounting off our backs for the sheer size and cost of the thing. There's talk of someday declassifying some of this and opening a museum in London, but who knows when that will happen. We're still finding things that were stuffed here sixty years ago to collect dust.

“We also have an extensive Archive of blueprints, mission reports, and other logs that we can’t quite bear to throw away. We’re still in the process of digitizing all the files, actually. That’s a menial job usually given to the new recruits or the minions who displease or get into trouble.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Q grinned. “Lots of experience. I was here for almost three years before my promotion and transfer to London. Spent a lot of time in the Archives.”

Bond made a noise that in anyone else would have been dismissive. But on the drive up Q had resigned himself to the idea that Bond would seek out Q’s old compatriots, get them drunk off their asses, and convince them to tell him stories of trouble-making.

Bond took off his glasses, and his blue eyes were alight with unholy glee. “Shall we, Quartermaster?”

“Two rules. One, don’t touch anything. I don’t want to pick bits of you out of the ceiling, and that’s a real possibility.” The unholy glee intensified. “Two, don’t wander off.”

“Don’t worry so much, Q, it’ll give you grey hair.” Then the man grinned at Q, the embodiment of suppressed mischief and mayhem.

Q hugged the clipboard to his chest and watched the other man nonchalantly nod to the guards at the entrance.

Grey hair, indeed.

The beginning was fine. Bond behaved, keeping his hands in his pockets (once or twice in Q’s back pockets, but Q thought a little sexual harassment on the job was a small price to pay for nothing blowing up. And it’s not like he’d never thought about a warehouse escapade, so, win). Q kept them moving at a good clip, stopping to talk to the odd minion and archivist, but always hustling on with his shadow on his heels.

“This place is amazing,” Bond breathed when they got to the vehicle portion of their tour. He greedily trailed his hands along the hulls of various watercraft, and Q thought the man was going to weep when he pulled the dust cloth off a classic Aston Martin convertible. It was cherry red, gleaming under the halogen lights, and Q had to admit that his own heart skipped a beat. Bond just stood there for a moment, marveling at the painstakingly maintained car as though it were the Mona Lisa.

“If you’re ever stuck on what to get me for Christmas, just come shopping here,” Bond said, reverently replacing the cover on the car.

“I’ll bear it in mind,” Q said. Bond dragged himself back to Q’s side with visible effort, and Q slipped his own hand into Bond’s back jeans pocket as a consolation as they walked on to their next category. The agent perked up considerably.

Perhaps Q would revisit his daydreams of an illicit assignation later.

“What the hell is that?” Bond asked suddenly, veering off. Q hummed questioningly, involved in examining the aircraft prototypes, including a really odd looking set of drones.

But when he looked up, he found that Bond had broken both rules, and was standing in front of a sad-looking contraption in the corner. He’d found a minion who was excitedly chattering about it.

“Oh,” Bond said breathily, staring at the collapsible helicopter. It didn’t have the heat seeking missiles, but it did still have the gun turrets and looked like it was an inch from falling apart, even as the minion assured him that it was in perfect working order.

Still holding the dust cloth in his hand, Bond spun around and met the horrified eyes of his Quartermaster.

“I’ve heard stories about this thing,” Bond said, practically vibrating.

“So have I,” Q said. “Horror stories.”

“Adventure stories. Come on, Q.” Bond leaned in. “I bet you can build a better one.”

“ _Can_ does not mean _should_ or _will_.”

“I want to try this out.”

“No.”

Bond gestured vaguely over his shoulder at the minion. “He just said that everything is kept in working order. It will be fine.”

“The answer is still no. It looks like it will fall apart.”

“It will not!”

Bond and Q turned to look at the outraged minion who immediately shrank back from the pointed attention of MI-6’s deadliest and most infamous men.

“Everything here is maintained, Quartermaster. I’d stake my reputation that this works fine.”

“It wouldn’t ultimately be your reputation, though, would it?” Q asked silkily. “It wouldn’t be you, explaining this to M if obsolete, fifty year old equipment with a shaky service record at best, failed mid-flight, either.” If his voice was soft, his green eyes were positively glacial and did not blink once.

The minion tried to fold in on himself.

“Shall I report to the Archive, sir?”

“Immediately.” Q drawled each syllable.

“Yes, sir,” said the minion, miserably.

“Come on Q, he’s doing his job. And he has professional pride. Let’s take this on a test run, hmm?”

The minion edged slowly away, every dragging step telegraphing a desire to be recalled.

Q turned his look on Bond, who’d been on the receiving end of such a look for entirely too long to be adversely affected. Finally he leaned forward and whispered in Q’s ear.

No one heard what was said, but a light flush darkened Q’s nose and cheeks and his eyes got all squinty. Particularly when Bond, sensing a crack, stepped forward, hand on Q’s lower back. All activity in the hanger stopped. Displays between MI-6’s top agent and Quartermaster were rare enough and only ever whispered about in the intranets, told like urban legends. The minions ogled, no one making any sudden moves.

Q’s long fingers gripped Bond’s chin with unyielding strength. “I’ll hold you to each and every one of those promises,” he said. Releasing Bond, he turned to the minion who was making the slowest exit on record. “You. Come back and help me with this damn thing. And only God will have mercy on you if you’re wrong about this.”

The minion scampered back.

 

[Present]

Q heard the engine turn over and catch, felt the wind from the whirling blades, and closed his eyes.

The gathered minions started whooping, and Q chanced a glance up. And immediately closed his eyes again, because he really didn’t need to watch. But then the images conjured by his brain were worse so he watched anyway.

The helicopter swooped by and Q saw Bond grinning like a madman. The helicopter circled the field and then disappeared over the tree-line. A few moments later, Q heard machine gun rounds fired.

“Ah, he found the range.”

Well, Q didn’t hear any crashing and burning.

“I’m going to finish my walkthrough. You,” he smiled and pointed at the hapless minion who started all of it, “will keep an eye out for him. Anything untoward happens, I will curse you with so many computer viruses that your great-grandchildren won’t even be able to use a toaster without it blowing up.”

Promise thus delivered, he clapped the minion on the back. The minion whimpered a little.

If one good thing came of this, he’d be able to finish his first day of inspections in peace. And maybe he'd be able to find some tea. Or contraband whiskey. Or both.


End file.
